


Off the Coast of Brazil

by sailorgreywolf



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Navy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorgreywolf/pseuds/sailorgreywolf
Summary: England and Portugal's paths cross aboard a ship of the royal navy. The conversation turns personal and certain feelings are revealed.





	Off the Coast of Brazil

The ship rocked gently on the lazy waves of the tropical sea as England sat in his cabin aboard the magnificent ship of the line he was commanding. He was busy updating the ships log as his crew worked above him. He could hear the groaning of wood from the quarterdeck as the carpenter patched the holes in it.

England was taking this time to make sure everything was in order. He expected to have the time to himself. But, it was not exciting work to account for the food, water, and cost of repairs. Numbers on the page would mean coins from the treasury, and that was dreary to contemplate, though he knew it was the natural consequence of the seafaring that he loved.

There was a knock on the door of his cabin and one of the midshipmen stepped nervously into the cabin. He said, “Sir, there is a ship approaching.” England assumed that the ship must not be flying enemy colors, or there would be more urgency. But, he couldn’t avoid confirming it, though they were in friendly waters. He grabbed his hat from the hook on the wall, but left his sword where it was hanging.

As he ascended the steps to the main deck, England slipped his hat onto his head, and carefully buttoned the top button of his coat. Though it was much to warm in the tropical sun for the layers of clothing he was wearing, it was proper naval code to wear all of the decorations of his office.

As he walked across the deck, sailors saluted him and waited patiently for his orders. England walked to the rail at the edge of the deck, where he pulled out his spyglass and fixed it on the handsome man-of-war drawing closer.

The flag flying from the uppermost mast was blue, then it was lowered and replaced with a white one. England recognized it as the agreed upon signal for a friendly vessel. He turned and said to the first sailor waiting behind him, “Run up the blue flag and then run up our colors.”

He knew that the flags would be enough to ensure that the other ship’s captain knew that he was a friend and exactly what country the ship belonged to. He was intrigued. But, he suspected it would just be a friendly visit if the other ship was also a British vessel.

He waited patiently as the other ship lowered its flag and ran up it’s own colors. As the wind caught it, the Portuguese flag unfurled.

England had a sudden inkling that he might know who was commanding the ship, or, perhaps, it was hope.

He moved his gaze from the mast to the deck, where he found the captain of the other ship with his spyglass fixed on him as well. When their gazes met, Portugal lowered his spyglass and waved.

England felt his heart beat a little faster, and his immediate reaction was to try to quiet it. Why should he feel such excitement at the sight of one of his closest allies? They had been good friends long enough that he should not feel this way. It was procedural for Portugal to pay a visit to him when he was moored off the shore of his colony, but England did not want to reduce it to that.

He turned to another sailor behind him and said, “Tell my cook to prepare some tea.” He thought about it for a moment and then added, “And bring out my good brandy. I am going to have a guest.”

He waited with baited breath as a boat rowed from the Portuguese man-of-war to his own. During the wait, he stole a chance to appreciate how the sun glinted off of Portugal’s brown hair. It excited a giddy joy in him that he could not logically explain.

When the boat reached his ship, England offered his hand down to Portugal, who took it gladly. England pulled him up with relative ease. Portugal smiled to him, “I’m glad to come aboard.”  
England replied with the utmost cordial charm that he could muster, “I’m very glad to have you here. Please come speak with me in my cabin.”

He stepped aside so that Portugal could walk in front of him. It was impossible to deny that he enjoyed the view. Portugal was just as blessed as his brother, if not more, when it came to figure. But, England felt ashamed that he was stealing that kind of glance at a man who considered him nothing more than a friend, and he was glad that Portugal could not see the color that was likely rising in his cheeks. He was even more grateful when they stepped below decks, where it was so dark there was no way he could let his eyes wander.

There was measured silence while they made it the rest of the way to the captain’s quarters. Once in the room, Portugal turned back to England and started speaking, “This is quite the ship. She looks strong and swift.”

He looked up at the beams of the ceiling, which were pleasantly high in a ship of this size so that one did not have to stoop in the captain’s quarters. It was a luxury and they both had been on enough ships to know it.

England gestured to a pair of chairs on either side of the table where he usually had dinner with his officers and said, “She’s a good ship, but she has looked better. Please, take a seat.” Portugal nodded curtly before taking the far seat.

After he sat, Portugal took off his jacket, and began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. England understood the sentiment; it really was far to warm for a jacket and between the two of them, they could be less formal. But, it did not help England’s composure to be reminded of how muscular and strong Portugal’s tanned arms were. It was so clear that he had spent years of his life doing hard work aboard a ship.

England sat across from him and tried to keep his gaze on the other man’s face. Portugal spoke again, “I noticed the damage to your quarterdeck. What happened?”  
England sighed before replying, “I was set upon by a very foolish pirate on the other side of Argentina. I blew out his rudder and put a few good shots in his hull. He’s at the bottom of the ocean now. Then I came around Cape Horn. Between the pirate shot and the storms, I’m afraid I gave the old girl more than she could handle.”

The cook pushed the door open and walked over to where they sat. He placed a silver tray with a teapot and two cups. The cook poured out the tea with slightly shaking hands.

England took the tea in hand and took a drink. Portugal said, “I see your fine china survived at least.” The tone of his voice made England smile. He enjoyed how effortlessly witty Portugal always managed to be.  
He replied, with a measure of wit of his own, “A tea set is necessary for every gentleman, so of course I couldn’t let it come to harm.”

Portugal dropped two cubes of sugar into his tea before taking a drink of it. As the cup left his lips, he smiled as though he was thinking of something very amusing. There was an impish quality to Portugal’s smile that England never failed to find charming. When he spoke, he made it clear what had made him smile like that, “I was thinking that my brother would consider that a pirate attacking a pirate.”

England knew that Portugal was right. Spain saw him as nothing more than a tenacious pirate who sacked his treasure ships mercilessly. He had said as much before he sent his armada. England said dismissively, “Your brother is a bastard.”

He said it without thinking and flushed an uncomfortable crimson when Portugal replied flippantly, “So am I.”  
England attempted to correct himself so that he did not feel like he was insulting Portugal, which was the last thing he intended, “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Portugal leaned forward, his expression still not one of anger, “You know what the difference between me and Antonio is?” England struggled to come up with one that would excuse what he had said. But, Portugal continued, “My brother has spent his whole life trying to prove that he is more than the bastard son of Rome. I do not care about that. The label of bastard is not an insult to me.”

England let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. The other man laughed and said, “So, here we sit. The bastard and the pirate.”

With that he took another drink of tea.

England found himself smiling again. He had often wondered how Portugal felt about the conflict between himself and Spain. Though Portugal was his steady ally, that did not mean that he approved. But, this little jest gave him enough faith to ask, “Do you really think I’m a pirate.”

He glanced down at his teacup, which was currently sitting between his hands providing unnecessary warmth. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. If Portugal had shared his brother’s opinion in secret all this time, it would be crushing.

The other took little time responding, “No, I think you’re a clever man taking advantage of an opportunity.” Portugal took another drink of tea before continuing, “I take no issue with you attacking my brother’s ships. I have no loyalty to Antonio, and I’m sure he would say the same about me.”

In a moment, his rather somber expression was replaced with another impish smile. England wondered if he had seen momentarily deeply into the relationship between Spain and Portugal. But, it vanished beneath that look of mischief. Portugal said, “I understand the temptation too. Slow frigates full of Peruvian gold and Mexican silver ripe for the taking.”

England found an easy response, one that let out a roguish edge that he usually tried to hide, “I couldn’t help it, even if it brought Antonio’s rage.” England wouldn’t deny that he loved the look on Spain’s face when he was full of supposedly righteous indignation and demanding some recompense for his lost ship. It was satisfying to see the great Catholic empire so frustrated and incapable of keeping him from stealing away his riches.

Portugal said, “Not much risk there if you face him at sea. Just between the two of us, Antonio is not a very good seaman. He is a brilliant soldier, but he has never been much of a sailor. He never had the patience for it, even when we were children.”

He paused, and England contemplated what the other had said. He took a sip of his tea, which had reached the same temperature as the surrounding air.

Portugal continued, “He used to mock me with my books and my celestial charts. He told me that there was no point to it. I remember he said, ‘What are you going to do with all of this? Our father didn’t conquer Europe with boats.’”

His imitation of Spain was a little too eerily accurate for England’s comfort. But, he tried to see beneath it to understand what Portugal was saying to him. It struck him as profoundly sad that the man sitting across from him was the one who had studied the sea in detail and knew the naval craft better than any man alive, but his brother was the one who had made one lucky journey and laid claim to unending riches.

He had no doubt that the years of study had been very productive. Portugal could read the stars and the currents more easily than any man he knew; he could give the time with accuracy based only on the position of the sun. For all that rare skill, he was still considered the second brother.

England was not certain what kind of comfort he could provide, or even if Portugal wanted any. Instead, he said, “Let’s not talk about Antonio. There are more interesting topics.”

Portugal put his cup aside, since it had gone cold in the time they were speaking. Almost as if on cue, the cook shuffled back into the cabin, carrying a bottle of brandy. He placed it on the table with two glasses before walking back out.

Portugal smiled and said, “Now that looks nice.” England leaned forward, pulled the cork from the bottle, and poured a glass. He handed it to Portugal, and as he took the glass, their hands brushed against each other and the Englishman felt a swell of deep tenderness. His existence had gotten him accustomed to being alone, but it was so pleasant to have a friend so close, let alone one whose smile could make him feel so at home.

But, there was so much he longed to say, that was not a gentleman’s way. He couldn’t say what vulgar thoughts he might have, especially not to one of the few people who really respected him.

England poured himself a glass of brandy as well, and tried to come up with a topic of conversation that would adequately distract his mind.

But, before he could say anything, Portugal asked, “Where are you going after you finish refitting here?”  
It was an easy enough question to answer, and England was glad for it. He said, “I am bound for Gibraltar once all the holes are patched.”

He planned to stop at his own port and check the news on the continent. He had heard whispers of unrest in France, but he would pay it little mind for now. It was unlikely that anti-monarchal sentiment would spill over the channel, even if it became serious in France. A stop in Gibraltar would give him time to assess the situation before he set off on another sea voyage.

He asked, reciprocating the question, “And where are you bound for?”  
Portugal took a deep drink of the brandy before he answered, “I am going back to Lisbon. I was in Rio de Janeiro to visit my dear Isabelle. And as much as I would love to stay here, she is not a little girl anymore and she can manage well enough without me. It would be a disservice to her to force her to rely on me. One day she will need to know how to stand on her own feet.”

There was such loving care in Portugal’s voice that England had never heard when any other empire speak about their colonies. He knew that there were few of his colonies he would ever spare that much emotion for. But when Portugal spoke of Brazil, his eyes lit up with truly parental pride and love. It was one of his best qualities, and England felt himself in awe of it.

He tried not to call any of that feeling into question when he said, “But, do you really think you are going to lose her one day?” From England’s perspective, it seemed to be unfounded worry. Portugal’s trade networks were in no danger that he was aware of, and surely such a pessimistic outlook would only hinder him.

Portugal leaned back in his chair and looked contemplatively at the beams above their heads. He took one more sip of brandy before he answered, “If I learned anything from studying my father’s history, it is that even the unassailable can one day be nothing but ruins. So, yes, I think the day will come. I do not believe it will come soon, but it will come. It is my job to make sure that I prepare Isabelle for that day.”

England had to concede the point. History was littered with examples of empires that had lasted for centuries, but had still fallen. But it was a terrible thought to consider the possibility that power would slip away one day, and those who once had power would be left behind. England refused to believe it though, his empire would be his as long as he still had breath in his body to fight rebellions. He said, “If that day comes, it will be far in the future, especially when you have me on your side.”

Portugal looked back at him, and the sadness in his eyes tore at England. He never wanted to see the man’s usually cheerful countenance so downcast. The words that came next only deepened the feeling of melancholy, “I certainly hope so. I lost my brother to his ambition to become Rome; I wish with all my heart not to lose Isabelle because of my own mistakes. I do not want to be alone again.”

His voice broke on the last sentence, and he took a hasty drink of brandy in an attempt to cover it. But, England saw the painful truth in it all the same. His heart hurt for his companion. He couldn’t provide enough comfort from across a table.

England carefully set aside his glass and said, “I promise you that you won’t be alone.” Then, struck by inspiration, he stood up and walked around the table and kneeled in front of Portugal and said, “I swear it to you.”

On a whim, he reached out to take the man’s hand. The skin on skin contact warmed the spot where they had touched. England pulled the hand to his lips and kissed it softly. The moment his lips left the other’s skin, he felt a surge of regret. Perhaps he had gone too far, and Portugal would not accept this little piece of his affection.

To his surprise, the brunette smiled at him and said, “Would you really stay by my side?” England nodded solemnly, hoping that the other would understand how earnest he was.

Portugal smiled again and then slowly stood. England felt a terrible worry that this was a rejection, and he stood to follow Portugal as the man walked over to the door of the cabin.

He said, trying to remedy the situation, “I’m sorry if I offended you.”  
Portugal turned back to him and said, “You didn’t.” Then he put his hand to the side of England’s face and leaned in to place a soft kiss on his lips. An incredible warmth blossomed in the British man’s chest as their lips met. He wanted to pull the other closer and not let him go. When they parted, Portugal said, “I like you too.”

Then he pulled away for a moment, and turned to the door of the cabin. Portugal opened it and said to the sailor outside, “Please inform my steward that I will not be back tonight.”

England understood the implication and felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair. Portugal turned back to him and said with a sly smirk, “Do you want to continue?”

The cabin was dark except for a few candles on the table, illuminating the scattered remains of a quick meal. The moonlight fell on the two men tangled together on England’s bunk. Portugal’s dark hair was untied from its usual ponytail, and England thought he looked even more handsome like this. He ran one hand through the man’s hair in the soft, affectionate afterglow that he was basking in. 

* * *

 

Portugal said, “That was magnificent.”  
The praise made a new blush rise in the British man’s cheeks, though he tried to be suave. England responded, “I enjoyed it too.”  
Portugal gave him a smile and kissed England’s chest gently and said, “How long have you wanted to do this?”

It was a difficult question, given the length of their acquaintance, and the blurry line between friendship, admiration, and attraction. England said, trying to be honest, though he couldn’t remember exactly when these feelings had started, “For quite a while. I was afraid to ask. I thought you didn’t feel the same.”  
Portugal responded without a moment’s hesitation, “Well, I do.”

Then, speaking softly while he ran one finger in circles on England’s chest, “You should visit me in Lisbon. It’s lovely in the Spring. The weather is warm; we could have good food and wine and spend our nights together like this.”

It was such an appealing image, one that sounded like something out of a romance. It sounded like a luxury that countries were rarely granted. England replied, “You could visit me in London too. It rains, and I haven’t gotten many compliments on the food. But, it’s home for me, and we could still spend the nights like this.”

Portugal’s hand stopped the circles it was tracing, and he looked up at England. His eyes sparkled with a barely hidden cunning.He said, “I have a thought.”  
England replied, “And what is that?”  
Portugal replied, “We will need to take the same course to Gibraltar and Lisbon. Why don’t we accompany each other?”  
England supplied the natural conclusion, “Then we can spend the nights together?”

It appealed to him greatly to have the whole trip across the Atlantic together, maybe even allowing themselves to forget political duty in each other’s arms. The other’s brown eyebrow arched suggestively and he said, “Of course.”  
England said, “I would like that very much.” Then he pulled Portugal into another kiss.


End file.
